


Order Up

by iwasbotwp



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Restaurant, Co-workers, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-22
Updated: 2020-01-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:09:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22361623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iwasbotwp/pseuds/iwasbotwp
Summary: Draco and Hermione are both servers at a magical restaurant. Flirting while dealing with crazy customers and trying to stay out of the weeds. Just a fluffy little one-shot with enough bad language to make it real (because it's restaurant workers).
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 19
Kudos: 86





	Order Up

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Pandorascube](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pandorascube/gifts).



> This was written as a prize for pandorascube in the Facebook group Dramione Fanfiction Writers. She completed the group's #spredits challenge and won the ability to prompt a member of the admin team. This was supposed to be a drabble, but I was having too much fun with it to stop at a few hundred words. Hope you enjoy what came from her restaurant co-workers prompt!

Frantically, Hermione flipped through her order pad, looking at one page, then another, then another, before going back to the first. 

“Shite! Shite, shite, _shite_!” she yelled, looking up at the salad-making station in front of her. A couple of the nearby line cooks had looked her away after the outburst, but quickly averted their gazes.

Another server, Padma, shimmied past her, snapped her fingers and the bowls and tongs got to work. “Are you making a salad?” the girl asked—rhetorically—as the four bowls began to fill themselves.

“Does it _bloody_ look like I am making a salad?” Hermione snapped, running her hand through her hair. Unfortunately, her hair was up, or had been up, and was now probably a complete disaster. With an angry sigh, she slammed her order pad down onto the counter and yanked out the ponytail holder to fix it.

Padma paused to give Hermione a scathing look. In a snotty voice she asked, “What’s your issue?”

“ _My issue_?” Hermione could hear the screech in her voice, but didn’t give two flying fucks as she stared at the other witch. She picked her pad back up and dramatically waved it in the air. “ _My issue_ is that I am so deep in the weeds, I scribbled down the order for the eight old biddies at table nine as fast as I could. Now I can’t read my own handwriting, so I don’t know what salad dressings these are.”

“Sucks to be you,” Padma replied flippantly as croutons arranged themselves onto the tops of her salads with a flourish. She flounced away, salads following her on a floating tray, before Hermione could formulate an answer through her ire.

Hermione was fuming. Couldn’t she get just a little bit of sympathy? Or maybe an offer of help in deciphering the jumble of letters that could read either blue cheese or vinaigrette? Perhaps that third one down was poppyseed; it was difficult to say. Her left eye began to twitch.

“I can help.”

Whirling around, Hermione found Draco standing there. She hadn’t even seen him come into the kitchen. “How could you possibly help?”

A slow smirk spread across his face. When she narrowed her eyes, he only looked more self-assured. 

Huffing, she handed him her pad. “Go ahead, hot shot. Tell me what this says.”

He barely glanced down before shrugging and handing it back. “No clue.”

“For fuck’s sake, Draco!” Eyes burning and her throat growing tight, Hermione turned away, not willing to let him see her cry. She was just going to have to go back out there and tell the table— 

“Start making your salads. I’ll go out there and get the dressing selections for you.”

“What?” she demanded. Taking a deep breath to calm her anxiety, Hermione allowed herself to look at him again. “How will you do that? Going to go out there and tell them how pitiful I am?”

Draco’s brows raised impossibly high and he sucked on his teeth while staring at her for a moment. “Trust me,” he finally said, his voice just loud enough for her to hear him over the din of plates banging and the sous chef yelling about someone putting in an order for well-done Graphorn ‘when we all know Graphorn steaks are only offered rare or medium-rare!’

Making a split-second decision, Hermione realized she had nothing to lose. “Fine.”

“Fine?” he parroted her, his eyes widening and mouth hanging open a little. Apparently, he had expected more of a fight from her.

“Yes, fine. Just go do whatever it is. I don’t have time for this.” Hermione managed a tight grin as she made shoo-ing motions. She had been getting her arse handed to her for four hours straight because of some bloody Quidditch tournament. She did not have time to bicker with him.

He strutted away, and despite how harried she was, she still managed to have the wherewithal to admire his arse as he did so, before counting out eight bowls and magicking them to pile full of mixed greens.

A few minutes later, Draco returned with the eight dressing orders while Hermione was putting in the table’s entree order for Chef Severus. Eyeing him, she tried to find out what he had said to the group of ladies to get it.

Draco steadfastly refused to answer her. “I’m telling you not to worry. I swear I didn’t say anything embarrassing. Little old ladies love me; I was simply my charming self. Now, go take care of your tables. I really need to get back to mine.”

“Thank you!” she called to his retreating back. When he turned to throw a wink at her, Hermione could feel her cheeks burning.

“You owe me!”

* * *

The back doorbell rang — the one used by vendors to signal the manager when deliveries were arriving, but more importantly, the one also used by the manager when she was willing to open the door for a ten minute window to give employees a chance at a smoke break. Like Pavlov’s dog, Hermione heard the bell and began to salivate. All she could think about was the pack of fags in her apron pocket.

It was another night, and once again Hermoine found herself overwhelmed. Last week’s tournament might have come and gone, but working at a popular restaurant meant Saturday nights were always busy.

A near-sprint around her section gained her an order for an additional round of Firewhiskies for table thirteen. She told the barkeep, letting him know she would be back in three minutes for them. Three minutes was just enough time to inhale an adequate amount of nicotine to satisfy her craving.

Cold air hit her face when she stepped outside, and she savoured the feeling of it on her hot arms and the back of her neck. The restaurant was packed tonight, with people waiting for tables, and she had worked up a light sweat. Thank Merlin for the spell she always cast before each shift that at least kept her smelling nice. 

With a quick flick of wand, the end of her fag was glowing red and Hermione was filling her lungs with its smoke. 

“Fuckkkk,” she sighed as she exhaled, blowing a nebulus into the cool evening air.

A chuckle came from next to her. “You getting killed tonight, too?” 

Turning, she found Leanne leaning against the wall. Time was of the essence and Hermione took another hard drag before responding. “Who isn’t? The weekend brings out all sorts, in droves.”

“Yeah, but at least most of them get pissed enough they forget their maths and leave a huge tip.”

Hermione snorted, thinking of a table from earlier. “Or none.”

Two more quick hits on the fag, and she knew her time was up, even if there was still about a quarter remaining. Dropping it to the ground, she snubbed it out with her heel, then used a _Depulso_ to banish it to the bin.

Just inside the back door was a sink, where Hermione stopped to quickly wash her hands.

“Did you already smoke?” a harried voice asked over her shoulder, raising goosebumps that had nothing to do with her recent stint in the night air.

Grabbing a kitchen towel, she roughly swiped her hands with it as she turned to find Draco standing close behind her. _Very_ close.

“Yeah,” she said, bunching up the towel. “I’ve really got to get back out there.”

His face fell and he glanced towards the still-open door, then back at her, his fringe falling over his eyes. He swiped it back and gave her a small, unsure smile. “Oh, I was hoping—“

“Do you need a fag?” Hermione assumed, reaching into her apron for her box. “You can have one.”

“Oh, no. I have some,” he quickly answered, reaching beneath his apron towards his trouser pocket. After pulling the crushed pack out, he stood there, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

A suspicion that he had wanted to smoke with her began to grow, but now was not the time to explore that. Reluctantly, she turned towards the kitchen alley. “Okay then. I gotta go, I’m sure table thirteen is wondering where their drinks are. Enjoy your break,” she told him, waving over her shoulder.

“Yeah, okay.”

She glanced back and saw him walking out the door, shoulders sloped as he tapped a fag out of his pack.

* * *

It had been two weeks, and Draco still wouldn’t tell her what he had said to her table that got her not only their dressing orders, but had charmed them into leaving her an astronomical tip.

“Oh Circe, you didn’t tell them I was pregnant, did you?” They were standing next to each other in the kitchen alley, both waiting for food to be plated and trayed up for their respective tables. Blushing with mortification, her chest tightened with worry, and she wondered why it hadn’t occurred to her sooner. 

Draco threw his head back, laughter ringing out over the clanking of heavy plates being shifted across the line from them. She bit her lip in consternation, wondering if he was laughing at her naïvety. 

"Order up!" Chef Severus barked, startling Hermione. She turned and found the intimidating man staring at her. "Get this food out of my window!"

While Draco continued to chuckle, the expeditor floated it out of the window and onto a tray. Hermione double-checked it against her pad as quickly as she could, just wanting to get away. She couldn’t believe she had been fancying him—how stupid of her.

“You are such a prat,” she mumbled, levitating the tray over her shoulder. “I never should have trusted you.”

He choked off his mirth. “Wait! I didn’t tell them you were pregnant. I promise. I wouldn’t use that sort of lie.”

“Then what?” She knew she should be hurrying to deliver the food but was too curious to leave, if he finally planned to reveal the secret.

Quirking his lips to the side, he contemplated her. Annoyingly, he shook his head. “I don’t know that you’ve earned the knowledge.” Smirking, he looked like a Kneazle that had caught a rat. “How about you check on my section for me while you’re out there? Swing around and see if anyone needs anything? And we’ll see then.”

“Fine,” she huffed.

Ten minutes later, she was back in the kitchen, asking a line cook for a bowl full of scampi butter, the kind they usually only put on shrimp, for one of Draco’s tables. The couple at table five had been the only ones to take her up on needing anything when she had swung through his section. At first she had tried to correct them to ask if they meant a ramekin, but they had insisted upon a _bowl_. She had seen Draco up at the bar getting a tray full of Butterbeers, so she hadn’t bothered him with this little request.

“What’s up with the scampi butter tonight?” Seamus asked as he floated the bowl she had asked for on the fly across the line to her.

“Dunno.”

“I’ve given two to Draco and now one to you.”

Hermione contemplated the bowl as she set it on a small tray to carry it out. Had Draco already given these people two bowls full of butter before this? What the hell were they using it for?

Sure enough, she now saw that there was a greasy bowl at the far edge of the table when she dropped off the fresh one. “Anything else?” she asked, eyeing their waistlines as discreetly as possible.

“Maybe another round of these delectable cheesy rolls?”

Plastering on her best fake smile like she was happy to fulfill their death wish—because how much saturated fat could anyone eat in one sitting?—she answered, “Sure thing!”

Seeing Draco in the kitchen, she grabbed his arm and tugged him towards the area where the rolls were kept. “I just dropped off what is apparently the third bowl full of scampi butter that table five has sucked down. What are they doing with it?” she demanded, before adding, “Oh, and they want more rolls.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “They are dipping their bread in it, they poured it over everything on their plates, and I wouldn’t be surprised if they are actually drinking it when they think no one is looking.”

Hermione tried not to gag.

Dropping four of the cheese-filled rolls into a basket, he brandished it at her. “This is their fourth round of rolls.”

Thinking back again to their near-obesity, Hermione couldn’t help quipping, “Well, it’s a good thing I know CPR if you need me.”

“If you have to resuscitate one of them, I’ll definitely tell you what I said to your table of little old witches. And I’ll do it over drinks after work.”

With a smirk, he turned on his heel and pushed his way out the swinging doors to the dining room, leaving Hermione open-mouthed and torn on how she felt about his table having a heart attack.

* * *

On her tiptoes, Hermione stretched upwards, her arm fully extended, fingers grazing the edge of a shelf, inches from their goal. She groaned in frustration. Maybe if she tried to cast a gentle _Accio_? The final tray full of appetizers that had been prepped for her private party in the back room was just beyond reach on an upper shelf of the walk-in cooler. She feared, however, that a Summoning Spell might dislodge the beautiful canapes and land her in a shitload of trouble.

A _click_ sounded behind her. Dropping back to flat-footed, Hermione faced the door, hoping whoever it was could help. The noise of the kitchen followed Draco into the cold space until it was abruptly cut off again when the insulated door fell shut.

Stopping just inside the door, he crossed his arms and regarded her. “Are you avoiding me?”

“What?” she spluttered, caught completely off-guard. “No, of course not!”

“What happened to you last night then?”

Last night, when they had gone out for a drink after work—with a handful of other people, not alone, as she had hoped. Maybe she shouldn’t have gotten her expectations up. Her high hopes were not his problem though, but hers. Right now, her more pressing problem was getting this tray of appetizers out with the others before the party arrived.

“Nothing happened to me last night, Draco. I had a couple of beers and a good time.”

His eyes narrowed and she couldn’t help noticing the way the muscles in his arms corded, before he scoffed.

She worked not to mirror his defensive body language, but rather, smiled. “Honestly, I did have a good time. I was just tired, and it seemed like everyone else wanted to keep on partying.”

“I had a good time, too,” he replied, his stance softening, “until you disappeared.”

“Disappeared? What was I supposed to do?”

“I thought—“ He licked his lips, regarding her, before he ran a hand through his hair.

Hermione glanced up at the tray above her that she so desperately needed, then back at Draco, who had his hands stuffed in his trouser pockets and was shuffling one foot. He was an enigma to her, one minute seeming so sure of himself and the next so vulnerable. The bravado was an act, she was coming to realize. 

Taking a metaphorical leap, she blurted out, “Look, I’d like to go out with you again for drinks. Maybe just us this time?”

A disarming smile lit up his face and his eyes crinkled at the corners. He stood up straighter, his entire demeanor shifting to happiness. Hermione wondered if he was always like this, shifting with the tides, so emotional. 

“Really?” he asked. “When?”

Hermione looked down at her watch, the hour was still early, but she had a pretty good feeling about tonight. As long as she got those damn appetizers out. And, to be frank, as long as she got out of the cooler soon. The cold was seeping in through her uniform. A Warming Charm sounded nice right about now, but it was against the rules to cast one in a cooler.

“How about tonight, after our shifts? If I get done first, I’ll wait for you,” she suggested.

“Same. I mean, yes, that sounds great… and same to waiting for you, if I get done first.” He rubbed the back of his neck while his cheeks turned pink.

“Okay, perfect.” Hermione turned towards the shelves again. “Not to change the subject, but I really need that tray up there.” Pointing above her, she looked back over her shoulder at him.

“Okay,” he said, closing the gap between them, his chest nearly touching her back. Angling his head down while he reached up, his breath ghosted along her cheek, sending chills down her spine. “But, you’re going to owe me.”

At this rate, she realized, there was a chance she would never build up to him telling her how he had gotten those damn salad dressing orders.

**Author's Note:**

> If ever anyone deserved a unicorn, it would be HeartOfAspen. One of these days, I am positive that the universe will reward her for all of the time she puts in doing beta work for me by sending her one. Until then, I continue to offer up my thanks to her in the form of silly notes.


End file.
